Page 43 of The Biker and the Baker

He waggles his brows and licks his lips. "Don't see nothing wrong with any of what you just said."

"Never mind,” I mutter through an exasperated sigh. “I'll find it myself."

It’s an RV, not a mansion, so it takes me half a minute to find the bathroom. Small, but enough. Nothing more than what one person needs.

I shower, wash my hair, and clean my teeth with one of the toothbrushes from the 12-pack in the vanity cabinet. When I emerge wrapped in a towel, since I have no clean clothes, Onyx is in the kitchen fixing hoagies.

"Better?" he asks with an arched brow.

"Much." I slide into the booth seat at the dinette where two bottles of cold beers are already sitting on coasters. "Do you ever get lonely being back here?"

"Wish that was the case. You only ask that ‘cause it's nighttime. Wait ‘til the sun comes up and those rugrats let loose."

"The twins?"

"Yep."

This makes me laugh, considering I’ve had first-hand experience with those two.

He plates the sandwiches and comes over to the dinette, setting one of the plates in front of me before sliding in next to me instead of across.

"Your hair's extra pretty when it’s wet like this."

Picking up my sandwich, I take a bite. It's perfect. Not sure what he put in it, but I think I taste smoked ham, cheese, tuna, pickles, garlic, and pepperoni. I take another bite before even fully swallowing the first one. "Damn, you make a mean sandwich."

He grins, pleased with himself. "That's another point in my corner. Falling for me yet?"

"Not even close."

He shrugs and we eat our delicious sandwiches in easy silence. I didn’t even realize I was this hungry. Working in a kitchen where I’m constantly tasting and picking at food here or there, I often neglect to sit down and eat an actual meal.

“What about you?” Onyx asks after he’s finished, wiping his hands with a napkin. “You want kids?”

“I do. Biological or adopted, doesn’t matter. But I’m big on family, so, yeah.”

“White picket fence? Marriage?”

“Nah. I’m not the white picket fence type at all. I’d live in a caravan if I could,” I reply. “Marriage, not something I think too much about. I’m not sure I believe in happily ever afters.”

“You will,” he promises with a wink, then polishes off his beer and stands.

“Highly doubt it,” I mumble under my breath.

He disappears down the passageway and seconds later I hear the shower running.

After I’ve finished off my beer, I take the empty plates to the kitchen sink, wash them and toss the beer bottles in the pull-out garbage bin.

As I’m drying my hands in a kitchen towel, my phone pings from my abandoned work bag on the built-in leather sofa. I walk over and dig it out, scanning the screen.

Cal: I miss you.

Cal: Baby I need to see you.

Cal: Please.

Ugh. This tool. He never quits.

I clear his texts and pull up the camera app in selfie mode. Getting as much of the RV interior as possible in the frame, I snap a selfie and forward it to Mira and Lissa with the caption:About to get myself into big, big trouble. Stop me before someone gets hurt!